


Valentine's Day 2015

by gabrielstolethetardis



Series: Valentine's Day [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Arguing, Drunk Sherlock, Drunken Kissing, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:52:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3822739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielstolethetardis/pseuds/gabrielstolethetardis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The atmosphere at 221B Baker Street is heavy with the weight of past skeletons, and John and Sherlock dance around each other as they struggle to reconcile the mistakes of the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Valentine's Day 2015

            John sees him everywhere.

            There, at the bakery.

            And there, walking in the park with his head down, coattails flapping in the wind.

            Even _there_ , just when John thinks he might go only to see _him_ there and leave as quickly as he came.

            Really, it wasn’t even John’s fault. It was _his_ , and the fact that both of them know that is what had really driven them apart, more than the discretion itself.

            John laughs dryly to himself, his shoulders bobbing up and down lightly. _Discretion._ Such an innocent word. One would never think that _discretion_ could mean what it means to John.

            “Sir, your bill.”

            John takes the small black folder from the waitress, thanking her kindly and flashing her a small smile that she returns out of politeness only. Perhaps it is out of politeness, too, that she leans over slightly and says in a hushed tone, “And pardon me if I’m intruding, but that man over there has been staring blatantly at you for some time now. If you’d like, we can ask him to leave.”

            John doesn’t look. He doesn’t have to—he can feel the eyes on him, can feel their questions and pleadings, and he isn’t having any of it. “That’s all right. I wouldn’t want to cause any trouble.”

            “Oh, it’s no trouble, sir.” The waitress gives John another smile, this one genuine, and shifts her weight slightly. “Our staff’s job is to keep our customers safe and satisfied.”

            “Thanks, but I’m in no way threatened by him.” This time, John does look, meeting _his_ eyes for the briefest of moments, before turning back to the waitress. “He’s nobody.”

* * *

 

            The worst part is that Sherlock had loved him with the entirety of his being, and now that that had been ripped away as suddenly as an adhesive bandage, he feels empty as he’d never known he could feel.

            It had never been his intention.

            He hadn’t even loved—

            _“He’s nobody.”_

            Sherlock feels the words like a slap across his face, and the next thing he knows he’s out of his seat and out the door, the bitter London air cooling the burning of his cheeks. _What a fool._ Of all the things, following him around like a sad, lonely lost puppy. What did Sherlock expect to achieve? _Nothing. Absolutely nothing._

            Sherlock can’t think straight.

            He can’t think at all.

            He

                 feels

                          so

                               empty.

            Maybe that’s why he stands outside the flat, staring at the crooked doorknocker with a disconnected fascination and then pushing open the door like he can, like he still has the right to.

            He has no right to anything anymore.

            He is filth.

            He is trash.

            He is _nobody._

            Still, he enters and sits, like he always did, in the faded flowered armchair, feeling the give of the fabric and the creak of the springs underneath him like a familiar hand on his shoulder, like a warm embrace.

            Of course, not the right hand, not the right embrace.

            Why had he thrown it all away?

            It had all seemed so logical at the time. One by one, harsh words exchanged after a stressful day faded under the murky mask of Sherlock’s liquid solution, bubbles rising and popping as short laughs or brief, sporadic deductions or boughts of vivid emotion. One exceptionally large bubble after he had long since faded into the throws of losing himself landed him next to a dark stranger, and then _pop._ Hands on hips, lips on soft skin, fingers fumbling with the edges of clothing, clothing dissolving under frantic, drugged, artificial passion—

            Then _him,_ dragging Sherlock away and screaming nonsense, shaking Sherlock and demanding _why,_ tears building and threatening to crash past a wall of tremendous self-control and fragile pride. Sherlock staring blankly at him, trying to figure out _why_ and failing, laughing at the absurdity of it all—

            _Slap._

            Past and present collide sharply, and Sherlock feels the sting again, bringing his hand tenderly to his cheek before moving his gaze slowly upward to face the storm, to face _him._ His eyes stop before their gazes can connect, focusing mindlessly on freckles. Tiny brown dots speckle a pale, upturned nose, and he makes shapes out of them, trying to come up with something new.

            Of course, he’s already constructed most of them. This is all old news, a figment of the past, and he clings to it desperately because the present, the future, is unstable and rapidly fracturing.

            _Freckles._ He can handle freckles.

            “Look at me, you son of a bitch.”

            A strong hand forces Sherlock’s chin upward, and just like that, the past disintegrates as today and tomorrow flood in full-force. Sherlock almost folds under the pressure of it, feels himself start to give against the wave of hopelessness and shame that hits his stomach and turns it sharply.

            Brown fills Sherlock’s vision, brimming with anger as hot as pure magma. “I don’t know what makes you think that you have _any right_ to come in here anymore, but let me make myself painfully clear.” His fingers tighten on Sherlock’s chin, and Sherlock supposes that it hurts, but it still sends sparks dancing and whirling from the mere sensation of _his_ skin on his. “I have nothing to forgive you for, so don’t look for it.” His eyes flare, and it’s like the sparks Sherlock feels have emerged in _his_ glare. “I don’t care that you were drunk. I don’t _care_ that I found you with another guy.”

            Sherlock feels like his entire being has been suddenly arrested from motion, like the earth has stopped revolving inexplicably and left him dangling in suspension with energy building inside him waiting to burst forth. “What—?”

            The hand forces his jaw upward, and the energy is shoved back inside, forcing Sherlock to swallow over and over again. “What I _care_ about is _why._ ”

            Such a funny thing, anger. It’s all hellfire and devil’s spit at first, carving into the recipient and destroying anything in its way, fueled by a never-ending supply of pent-up emotions and hateful notions, but then _boom_ —the trigger that sends it all crumbling down. With one word, one wistful glance, one single thought, the brute rage folds and crumples into absolute sorrow, a sadness so great it consumes a person and sends them spiraling into a dark abyss, a black hole created by the absence of heated, intense fury.

Sherlock sees the trigger, sees the rage in _his_ eyes flicker and fade almost instantaneously, sees an overwhelming melancholy flood in like high tide, sweeping away everything in its path and taking over entirely. He has to close his eyes as _he_ continues, “Why wasn’t I good enough? Why did you feel like you had to get away from what we had?” A lower lip trembles, fingers loosen slightly. “Why, after all this time of shutting yourself away from the world, after only letting in _me_ , did you forget how much I love you?”

He seems to realize his mistake at the same time Sherlock does, and the shock sends him a step or two back. “Lov _ed_ ,” he corrects, but it’s too late—Sherlock’s standing and reaching out towards him, his face opening, hope rushing in on eager feet because _finally,_ finally he can make things right—

“Stop!”

Sherlock’s hands stop just short of _his_ face, the tips almost brushing the fine hairs of _his_ cheeks, and he watches, horrified, as _he_ puts his hands up as a sort of shield between them, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “Please.”

And then, Sherlock _knows._ He lowers his hands. “Because I’m selfish.”

A lone tear dribbles down an ashen cheek. “What?”

“What was it you called me?” Sherlock thought. “A contemptuous bastard.”

 _He_ looks as if all his blood has been replaced instantly with snow-white milk, the tops of his cheekbones the only things remaining stubbornly rose-pink.

“So I drank until every person I glanced at seemed completely irresistible, and then I collapsed into the first pair of willing arms I found. And why?” Sherlock huffs out a short, exasperated breath. “Because I’m selfish. I spent so long being empty, and suddenly there I was again, empty. I needed _something._ I needed…”

Sherlock inhales sharply as it hits him, slamming into his being like a freight train hurtling full-speed ahead and sending him a step backward—no, a step forward, towards _him_ , like it’s always been. It’s always been about _him._ “I needed to stop thinking about the way you looked at me like you couldn’t stand to see me, and like the _idiot_ I am, I didn’t even consider you.” He laughs, and it rips through his throat, cutting soft flesh with sharp claws of regret and self-hatred. “And all I can do is ask you to take me back, because I’m that selfish still. You have every right to walk away and find someone who deserves you, but I will beg on my knees for you to stay and cling to you for as long as possible.”

Then, somehow, Sherlock meets _his_ eyes, ignoring the emotion brimming heavily within them, and lets himself go. “I love you, John. Please.”

* * *

 

_Like the idiot I am._

John supposes it’s that more than anything that pushes him over the edge and into heart-wrenching, gut-twisting freefall, the years whipping by in seconds and flashing before John as he rushes past, reaching for times gone by with frantic fingers. It turns red-hot rage into icy shock, stinging pain into tingling numbness, and fiery words left unsaid and waiting into a frozen speechlessness.

Sherlock’s just never admitted to being _wrong,_ much less an _idiot._

Why doesn’t he feel relieved?

Why does he feel guilt crashing over him like tsunami waves, carrying him away so Sherlock’s words fade into white noise?

Why does he lurch forward and overtake Sherlock’s wobbling lips with his own, willing to consume Sherlock for all his faults and forgive the skeletons of the past?

And that’s exactly what Sherlock says, ripping himself out of the embrace almost as quickly as it happens and staring at John with pupils diluted so far as to be nearly non-existent: “Why?”

Why?

John swallows, the answer tickling at the back of his mind, demanding attention that John finally gives. “Because I’m selfish, too.”

Sherlock’s eyes glint something dark, dangerous, and yet impossibly tender. “No, you’re not.”

Just like that, John feels himself slipping into the pattern, his lips forming the ghost of a smile, his hands going instinctively to Sherlock’s, his fingers twitching for the familiar touch of Sherlock’s skin. “Right, I forgot. You’re the idiot.”

Sherlock groans, and the room’s light again, tension draining through the floorboards and seeping away in lieu of something both comfortably familiar and tenderly fresh. “Just this once.”

Their banter fills the flat, and outside the door, Ms. Hudson smiles softly and quietly departs.

 


End file.
